


When the hurdy-gurdy's done

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:11:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Prouvaire plays the hurdy-gurdy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the hurdy-gurdy's done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilferingApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilferingApples/gifts).



Bahorel sighed, gritted his teeth, and tried to ignore the harsh whine of Jehan’s vielle à roue from the other end of the Musain’s backroom. Though he, Bahorel, personally preferred the English word for the instrument: _hurdy-gurdy_. It was an enjoyably ridiculous-sounding word.

The vielle à roue itself was also ridiculous-sounding, if not enjoyable.

This was a strange role for Bahorel, to be grudgingly tolerating a nuisance. As a rule, Bahorel did not grudgingly tolerate. He enthusiastically applauded, or else he fought with all his might. Tolerance was either for milksops or for the coolly detached, like Enjolras. Men with blood in their veins didn’t _tolerate_.

This vielle à roue could not be applauded. Nor could it be fought. Not by anyone whose sentiments might be affected by the sight of Jehan looking hurt, anyway.

So Bahorel was reduced to suffering in silence. What ignominy! What degradation he endured, all for the sake of a friend’s feelings! The romantic heroism in that notion was somewhat cheering. But not, Bahorel decided as he winced at yet another shrill note of the vielle à roue, nearly cheering enough to compensate.

“Why is Prouvaire making that noise?”

At the sound of Feuilly’s voice, Bahorel looked up from his book—a recommendation of Jehan’s, in fact, about 1793, by a woman named Marie-Victoire Hugolin. She had skill with a pen, to be sure, but seemed to have nothing but scorn for peasants. An ignorant, bigoted bourgeoise, and what Jehan saw in her—well.

“He thinks it’s music,” Bahorel said, with a grimace.

“By God.” Feuilly shuddered, and pulled his cap further down over his ears. “Can we convince him to stop?”

“Without wounding him? I’m not sure we can. I have been sitting here with clenched jaw and stopped-up ears for _two whole minutes_ , Feuilly. You can imagine my distress. And I haven’t yet thought of any way to distract him. Do you have any ideas?”

“Prouvaire!” Feuilly called out, striding over to Jehan without another moment’s delay. Bahorel admired that about him. A man of action, that was Feuilly. When confronted with a problem, whether the oppression of the Polish nation or an assault on Parisian eardrums, Feuilly did not dither. No, Feuilly cut right to the heart of the matter. “Prouvaire, good evening!”

“Oh, Feuilly! I’m glad you’re here—have you seen my new delight?” Jehan ran his hand down the torture implement with a dreamy smile.

“Er—yes, and heard it too,” Feuilly said, with a laudable evenness of tone. “But what do you think of this new National Government in Poland? I think it’s promising—”

Bahorel grinned. This was a brilliant strategy, all the more brilliant because it was so uncalculating. Feuilly never needed any excuse to march up to anyone and begin talking about nations rising up against the oppressors. He would have done so even if Jehan had been sitting inoffensively in a silent poetic daze. It was the most unsuspicious thing Feuilly could have done to distract Jehan from that vile machine.

It lasted for some time—twenty minutes, perhaps thirty, with no sound but the street noise and the voices of Jehan and Feuilly. It was beautiful, and Bahorel savored it, but then he began to take it for granted.

A mistake. Bahorel fully believed in the stale observation that fortune was like a woman: if you took her for granted, she’d brusquely retract her favors. And it was just when Bahorel had begun to rely on the glorious lack of infernal shrieks that Louison came in with some wine for Feuilly.

“Ah, good, you’re here,” Jehan said to Louison, picking up the vielle à roue again.

Feuilly moved to cut him off. “Yes, but do you think Russia will—”

“Oh, yes, we’ll certainly continue to discuss Russia’s iniquities later,” said Jehan, with a sort of gentle relentlessness. “But I want to hear what Louison thinks of this. It’s a love song, you know, and therefore only a woman may judge it properly. Surely Louison will understand the true spirit of the song. It was written in medieval times, when this instrument was invented.”

Louison’s amused look changed to a trapped one as Jehan began to play.

“It’s very _old-sounding_ and, er, very sweet,” she interrupted, after a few bars. “But I must be going, Monsieur Prouvaire—I have work to do.” She turned and left so quickly that her skirt swished behind her.

“Old-sounding,” Jehan said, sounding very happy with the compliment. “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” His fingers curled round the vielle à roue once more. Bahorel’s whole body tensed.

“I fear Russia will invade again very soon,” Feuilly said. “’And the Poles surely can’t expect aid from our new king. Of course, I am no military strategist. But I can’t be sanguine about their chances without help from other nations—”

Jehan’s grip on the instrument relaxed. He leaned back, and began to talk of the self-regarding cowardice of Louis-Philippe, and grew positively grandiloquent about Emilia Plater and Piotr Wysocki.

Bahorel exhaled, and silently thanked Feuilly and the Polish patriots.


End file.
